Truth (Sir Wolff's Version)
They have convened again. Sir Wolff has been placed in the dungeons for a week, with only the water on the walls for drink. Then they have washed him, and clothed him, and allowed him the bare honours of his rank. So he is too weak to wear his armour, but they have mounted it upon him; he is too weak to bear the sword of his fathers. So they have given it to him. That is a mistake.
Kneel, recreant. What do you say is truth? Quid est veritas?
What you call truth is what you have invented. It is a cloth you have woven upon the sticks of reality.
See, murmurs one to another, the black hoods rustling amongst the Magistratum, he continues to defame.
You say we invent the truth? That we weave what is not true?
No, I say that what you weave is what you call the truth. You summon it to you, you bind it, you name it 'truth'.
And do you think, sieur, that it is not?
How could I think that it is not when it bears that name? The Magistratum publishes it, and hence it is truth.
Do you mock us?
I am too weak to mock you. See how I am faint as unto death beneath the heavy burden of my armour? I have had nothing but God's dew to drink in all these seven days.
They laugh among themselves. One says, perhaps he thinks he is Elijah come again.
Why do you still bear a sword in the presence of the Magistratum?
I am too weak to bear a sword. It has the might of my fathers in it unto the third and fourth generation. My hands quiver as if palsied, for I am unworthy in my strength.
But it glows, and he raises it up, says a grey voice.
Aha, but I did not say the sword was too weak to bear me! And its name is Perdurias, for it is that which lasts long after all else has fallen to dust.
Alarm. Consternation. And through it all, the serene visage of one who knows his Master, and has long learnt not to fear the end.
'Est vir qui adest' was the answer Pilate failed to see, says Sir Wolff to himself, quietly.
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"God is my Master," the Patriarch said. "It makes for simplicity. I commend it. For that is your trouble, isn't it?"
– Dorothy Dunnett, Caprice & Rondo
Kneel, recreant. What do you say is truth? Quid est veritas?
What you call truth is what you have invented. It is a cloth you have woven upon the sticks of reality.
See, murmurs one to another, the black hoods rustling amongst the Magistratum, he continues to defame.
You say we invent the truth? That we weave what is not true?
No, I say that what you weave is what you call the truth. You summon it to you, you bind it, you name it 'truth'.
And do you think, sieur, that it is not?
How could I think that it is not when it bears that name? The Magistratum publishes it, and hence it is truth.
Do you mock us?
I am too weak to mock you. See how I am faint as unto death beneath the heavy burden of my armour? I have had nothing but God's dew to drink in all these seven days.
They laugh among themselves. One says, perhaps he thinks he is Elijah come again.
Why do you still bear a sword in the presence of the Magistratum?
I am too weak to bear a sword. It has the might of my fathers in it unto the third and fourth generation. My hands quiver as if palsied, for I am unworthy in my strength.
But it glows, and he raises it up, says a grey voice.
Aha, but I did not say the sword was too weak to bear me! And its name is Perdurias, for it is that which lasts long after all else has fallen to dust.
Alarm. Consternation. And through it all, the serene visage of one who knows his Master, and has long learnt not to fear the end.
'Est vir qui adest' was the answer Pilate failed to see, says Sir Wolff to himself, quietly.
=====
"God is my Master," the Patriarch said. "It makes for simplicity. I commend it. For that is your trouble, isn't it?"
– Dorothy Dunnett, Caprice & Rondo
Labels: Historical Fiction, Reality, Truth, Wolff
etched with acid at 2:47:00 am
2 Comments:
Ah. I recognise the sword now that you have named it.
grin. khayce, should I be alarmed? Your picture looks pretty devilish.
Scary scary display pic.
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